The light breaks once
Twice
Ephemeral punctures in an ever shifting sky

A portal to another season
Hammers against the covers clothed in mist

The lifedrink of the coastal redwoods hanging desultory just out of reach

Ever upwards, ever stretched to that river in the sky, to usurp auld Nimrod and brush the face of God

And standing below in a fleeting moment, I watch. The seeds fall around me, sprout in first shoots of green, grow and grow ’til their energy is expent, then return to the soil once more.

I watch them in fascination, for my own cycle mirrors theirs, displaced by time, just as the redwoods look down on me, crawling creature in the mud, I am the pattern they cannot unwend, though they turn to face the sun, I am the horror they cannot forget.

Yet of all the possibilities, all the combinations of every atom in every being, more countless than the stars are the possibilities of each of us, we few are the fortunate for our being, more precious than the emerald, diamond, sapphire glints in the sand upon all the beaches in all the world, dazzling afire in the fading rays of day.

For we are the ones who are, we precious few, vanguards of those yet to come or may never be.

I see the clouds seal the portal once again, cast the green fields in soft shadowed divinity. Through the air in close delight flit sparrows and wrens, theirs is a joy unbridled with the zephyrs beneath their wings.

Upon the stolid Sycamore sit sentinel crows, their quorks and screams in raucous cacophony, their mirthful chatter fills the air.

Below the dew-limned blades twitching and springing as the droplets leave their passing trace, ants scatter, ever busy, ever seeking more good for the colony, good for the whole.

I hear a croak and spy a toad, content upon his moist plinth, watching the insects crawl and scurry before him. He deigns not to descend amongst them with terror and destruction in his wake, he imagines himself a ruler on a perfunctory throne.

Mushrooms there, given berth by the creatures of stained coats and muddy paws. They follow their own cycles in contraindicated harmony. Their decay is an extant form of life, incongruous but mirrored in swiftly revolving cycles.

I see these patterns weft through my fingers, I lay my hand upon the weave, but my thread tugs and pulls on all it contacts. Some it touches only briefly, a contrasting color at a single point to incite drama, some it combines with, the hues of the thread becoming indistinguishable from one another until together they create something new.
A dewdrop falls upon the bridge of my nose, a sparrow titters in delight, these experiences flow into and through me. In the stillness I am rooted in soil, I am light as a leaf.
The stars shift and dance in heavenly coordination, steps and rhythms long etched within them as they far fling from their place of birth. They pass us by, cold and uncaring for naught but their patterns until no steps remain, their final bow and curtain close.

So we watch in awe of their majesty, but they are followers of rule and order, tumbling in shockwaves eons past. Theirs is a course wrought in explosive filigree, their diffusion is falling with style.

I begin to move, mist forming into drops, drops carrying out their namesake and beginning to fall upon us all.
As the petrichor wafts gently to fill my lungs with its sweet earthy aroma, I find peace in my place.
As I depart from the glen, I feel washed clean in the rain and solitude.
As I descend back into the ordered chaos of the weaves and threads and lives that surround me, some touch me at oblique angles, a contrasting counterpoint to incite drama.
My feet slide and squish along the muddy trail. My threads are dirty, but my soul is clean.